


What Happens in Bulgaria...

by eevilalice



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Birthday, Dirty Talk, F/M, Fingerfucking, First Time, Frottage, Hogwarts Era, Humor, Kidnapping, Light Bondage, Massage, Public Sex, Romance, Travel, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eevilalice/pseuds/eevilalice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on holiday in Bulgaria with his (largely MIA) parents, Draco is surprised with a belated birthday present courtesy of his father. A very special, naughty birthday present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I began writing this story from one of my own prompts from the first round of the Deflower Draco fest on Livejournal/Dreamwidth. I didn't finish in time but had written quite a chunk and had fun doing so, enough to return to finish it a year later! 
> 
> Taking place between GoF and OotP, Draco and Hermione are both 15 (she is almost 16) in this story. There's some light bondage (think: gift-wrapping), but no hardcore BDSM. There are also mentions of Viktor/Hermione and Draco/Pansy.
> 
> My thanks to S. for helping me work through what I thought to be insurmountable plot holes.

“Happy Belated 15th Birthday, Draco.”

 

Draco stirred in his posh hotel bed, its stratospherically high thread count sheets pleasantly soft and warm against his cheek. “Mmph,” he grunted, cracking an eye open, a precaution against the tall, wide windows whose curtains automatically parted at 7:30 a.m.

 

Yet the only light in the room appeared to be coming from his father’s wand, which illuminated his slyly grinning face.

 

Draco blinked, confused but excited, and shifted onto his back. “Father?”

 

“I have a special gift for your annual post-school year birthday celebration, son. It’s an important time in your life, in our _family’s_ life. You deserve to have anything and everything you want. Even those desires you dare not name.” He gestured with his wand, lighting a few nearby sconces, and stepped away.

 

And there, in the center of the room, wriggling frantically upon the lynx-fur rug, lay one Hermione Granger.

 

One _naked_ Hermione Granger, strategically placed red ribbons criss-crossing her body, binding her wrists and ankles behind her back, and tied in a big red bow at her breasts.

 

Draco shot up in bed, panicked. “How did you, _why_ , what, but she’s a, a—”

 

“Mudblood?” his father supplied, still grinning, clearly anticipating these questions. Eager, even, to answer them. “First of all, don’t worry yourself over how. You will be given the whole night with her to do as you please, so I’d start thinking instead about exactly how you might like to spend your time.”

 

Draco gripped the sheets spasmodically, avoiding his father’s amused gaze.

 

“It’s midnight now. At 7:00 a.m., I shall return, Obliviate her, and take care of the rest, with no one the wiser.”

 

Draco glanced down at Hermione, who flopped about with renewed vigor, fury the likes of which he doubted even Weasley or Potter had ever seen blazing forth from her eyes like a powerful _Incendio_. She’d been gagged, but judging from the total silence, he guessed his father had also used a spell to keep her quiet.

 

Lucius turned his head. “Oh, do you like the gag? I thought it would be a nice touch.”

 

Draco’s smirk mirrored his father’s, but there was one last unanswered question, the biggest. His stomach twisted itself in crazed, impossible knots.

 

“Why _Granger_?” Her name came out filled with more venom than a curse. As an afterthought, he added, “Not that I don’t appreciate the effort you must have taken fetching her from England . . .”

 

“Oh no, son. She was right here in Bulgaria. Visiting Krum. Quite the starfucker, like you said.”

 

In her thrashing, Hermione had flipped herself over onto her front and was now struggling to turn back to her side.

 

Lucius chuckled. “I suppose you’ll find out just how literal a starfucker she is. She’ll either be quite skilled or—and this is my guess—delightfully untried.”

 

Draco stared down at his hands, which he’d begun compulsively smoothing along the tops of his pajama-clad thighs.

 

“I know what you’re worried about, Draco. And I’m not angry.” His father’s voice was indulgent and reassuring. Draco looked up, surprised. Hopeful.

 

Lucius sat on the bed beside him, arm going around his shoulders. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice your obsession with her? All those nasty but excessive comments? Why, someone who didn’t know you would think you hated _her_ more than Potter. But I know what lies beneath the apparent antipathy and disgust.” He paused dramatically, and Draco bit his lip, unable to break eye contact, yellow light gleaming in his father’s long, pale hair.

 

“Lust.” 

 

Heat suffused Draco’s face; it felt like he was going to bite through his lip.

 

Lucius gave his shoulder a squeeze and stood. “Moreover, it’s not as if you’re the first pure-blood aristocrat to have such…urges. Better to, how shall I put it? _Exorcise_ them, you know, get them out of your system, rather than let them fester and, Merlin forbid, rot your very soul. You could end up thinking Mudbloods are worth more than a dirty fuck on the sly. Then I’d have to disown you.” He patted Draco lightly on the cheek.

 

There was a thud behind Lucius, and he turned, laughing quietly as Hermione failed once again to roll onto her side, or perhaps had just flopped back on her front. “That’s all right, Miss Granger. We quite like this view, don’t we, Draco?”

 

Draco swallowed thickly and licked his lips. The wide red ribbon came across her bum, which was raised slightly due to the awkward position the binding of her wrists and ankles put her in. If there were just a _little_ more light in the room, if her hips came up just a _bit_ higher, he was sure he’d be able to see her—

 

“Well, I’ll leave you kids to it, then,” Lucius winked as he reached the door. “Oh, and do be careful of your wand, son. As you’ve grudgingly admitted, she is quite resourceful, and we don’t want her causing any trouble. Perhaps you should keep her wrists bound?” With a few flicks of his own wand, he released the Silencing spell on Hermione and put one on the room to prevent any sounds from reaching passing or neighboring ears.

 

“Have fun!” he whispered gleefully, as if he’d just given Draco his first broom.

 

“Th-thank you, Father.” 

 

The door closed behind him with a quiet _snick_ , and Draco was left alone with his “gift.”

 

His deadly silent gift. 

 

Draco slid off his bed and walked over to the strangely still, bound form on the soft fur rug. His back to the fireplace that served as a Floo (locked this time of night), he looked down at the helpless girl before him. In her thrashing, the ribbon and bow had ridden up her chest, exposing the undersides of her breasts (or, the one he could see as she lay on her left side facing him). Her belly heaved with rapid breaths, and the ribbon clung tightly round her hips and upper thighs. Finally, his eyes travelled back up her body to her face.

 

To his surprise, he found her eyes squeezed tightly shut, brow furrowed. Her mouth was understandably tense around the gag, a bit of drool leaking down the side of her chin.

 

Draco knelt, but kept his distance. Sensing her predator, Hermione’s eyes snapped open.

 

“Grr thish ou uh my mou, Drayo!”

 

And the biggest smile of his life spread across Draco’s face.


	2. Chapter 2

_One month earlier…_

 

“Granger?! What are _you_ doing here?”

 

“Can you really not figure that out, Malfoy?” The last person on Earth (or second-to-last, certainly in the top three) he wanted to see stood before him, admiring the same painting he’d been _attempting_ to admire before he’d noticed her bushy hair and furious note-taking.

 

“Krum can’t still be interested, can he? Maybe he’s taken too many Bludgers to the head,” Draco reasoned. “Or, you haven’t given it up to him yet. Though Merlin knows why he’d want it. And we’re right back to the head injury theory.” Draco scratched his chin in mock-contemplation.

 

Granger clutched her notebook and quill tightly, her face red. “You’re lucky we’re in a public place like this gallery, Malfoy, or I might not bother restraining the violent impulses you’re inspiring right now.”

 

He snorted. “I’m quivering in terror, Granger. And you should be thanking me for the inspiration.”

 

“Anyway, what are _you_ doing here in Sofia?”

 

Draco drew himself up and folded his arms across his chest. “Father’s here on Ministry business. My mother and I came along.”

 

“Ministry business, my arse,” she muttered.

 

He felt his face flush and took a step closer. “Sorry?”

 

She rolled her eyes and busied herself putting things away in a small, beaded bag. “Come off it. As if you don’t brag half the time about your father’s…associations. Now, it’s been lovely catching up, but I have somewhere to be. Enjoy the gallery.” She spun on her heel, a wave of curls whapping him in the face as she did so.

 

Draco grit his teeth and glanced around, but none of the other witches or wizards scattered throughout the hushed, private gallery seemed to have been paying any attention to them. He watched Granger as she left, her quick strides causing the slightly ruffled hem of her flowered dress to flounce against her surprisingly shapely calves. And her arse wasn’t bad either. Not bad at all. He’d never seen her in anything but a school uniform or denims and casual shirts and jumpers.

 

Except that dress at the Yule Ball. But then he’d been staring at her tits.

 

He shook his head as if to clear it and chuckled. _This city is driving me barmy._

 

Running into Granger was, sadly, the most interesting thing that had happened in days. His family had come here straight after the term ended more than a week ago. While Draco was perfectly capable of entertaining himself (he _was_ an only child), there were only so many museums, galleries, and palaces one could visit, and the city’s wizarding society was small compared to London’s. In addition, contrary to the impression he gave his friends, his father did not allow him along on business dealings; he didn’t even know if what Granger had insinuated was correct. Meanwhile, his mother spent her days shopping or doing some sort of charity work. He’d all but begged Blaise to visit, but he was off in Peru where his mother was seducing her future ex-husband.

 

But what was really frustrating him was his birthday celebration. Or, more accurately, the lack thereof. Since Draco’s birthday fell during the Spring term, typically around the time when studying for exams reached a fever-pitch, his family didn’t get the chance to help him celebrate properly. So, they’d established a tradition of throwing him a lavish party after term ended, complete with piles of gifts and dozens of his closest friends.

 

This year, the trip to Bulgaria had delayed the celebration. His father kept assuring him that they hadn’t forgotten; he was just too busy at the moment, but plans were underway. Every day, Draco returned to their suite of rooms at the luxury wizarding hotel hoping there might be a surprise waiting. 

 

But so far there’d been none. Just the same empty rooms.

 

And he’d officially run out of art galleries.

* * *

The next afternoon found him at his favorite restaurant, a little out-of-the-way place that even other wizards seemed not to have discovered. To his chagrin, however, the tables were fairly full, and there didn’t appear to be a seat in sight.

 

Draco sighed. _Bollocks._ Perhaps he’d just head back to the hotel for some room service.

 

“Would you like to sit, Malfoy?”

 

He bristled at the familiar voice and searched the nearby tables for the head of bushy brown hair. There Granger sat, a table away to his left, book in hand.

 

Draco rolled his eyes and made his way over. “Are you about to leave?”

 

“No, I just got here. I was lucky I managed to get this table. There’s an Herbology conference in town.”

 

Draco huffed. “Figures. Bet it breaks Longbottom’s heart not to be here.”

 

Hermione closed her book with a _whump_ and stretched her shoulders back. “Well, are you going to join me?”

 

“Awfully eager for my company, hm? Not that I blame you.” He smirked. Fucking with Granger could be rather fun. Especially when he literally had _nothing_ better to do.

 

She looked down at the book in her hands and said in an oddly quiet voice, “I’m just trying to be polite, Draco.”

 

Quirking an eyebrow, he stood there another moment, pretending to find the situation exasperating beyond measure and surprised he actually didn’t. His stomach helped him out further by growling loudly. 

 

“Well, I _am_ starving,” he sighed, sinking languidly into the chair across from her.

 

The next few moments were awkward as they ordered and waited silently for their shopska salads.

 

“So,” Draco began, uncomfortable with the silence, mostly because it meant he wasn’t saying anything nasty to her, “you’re spending quite a lot of time away from your sweetheart, aren’t you? Trouble in Bulgarian paradise? Are you being a prude, Granger? I’d be careful; he’s got plenty of options.”

 

Before she could respond their salads arrived, and both gratefully tucked in. After a minute or two of munching during which Draco stared at the Gryffindor in what he hoped was an aggravating manner, she put her fork down.

 

“We broke up. Yesterday, actually, after I saw you at the gallery.”

 

“Ah, so that was why you were so rude. Saw it coming, did you?” He speared a tomato and grimaced in a mockery of sympathy, feeling bizarrely energized by her news. Of course Granger and heartbreak _was_ a recipe for glee as far as he was concerned.

 

She took a sip of water. “Not that it matters, but I’m the one who broke it off.”

 

Draco hid his surprise by shoving a stack of cucumber slices in his mouth. What had he gotten himself into? He didn’t actually care about the ins and outs of Granger’s personal life, even if it involved one of his favorite Quidditch players. He had to change the subject. Or piss her off.

 

“Pressuring you, was he?” he drawled as if bored. Which he was. Truly.

 

She dropped her utensils with a clatter. “No! He would never! And why are you so obsessed with… _that_?”

 

Draco went rigid in his chair. “I’m not obsessed!” He snapped his fingers for the waiter; this conversation required alcohol. “I’m a bloke; it’s normal. And I know how these things usually go.” Pansy had gotten her knickers in a twist the night of the Yule Ball when he’d tried to get his hand up her dress. Said he was “moving too fast.” What a laugh. The truth was she was messing about with some sixth year Ravenclaw and had only been interested in attending the Ball with him for appearance’s sake, the slag.

 

While he ordered some rakia, Hermione gulped down more water, then attempted to push her mass of curls back from her face. He noticed her floral-print blouse was somewhat transparent and found himself searching distractedly for a hint of nipple amongst the flowers.

 

“Viktor and I—”

 

Draco’s eyes flicked up to her face. She seemed not to have noticed his ogling, obviously too wrapped up in her emotional drama.

 

“We just weren’t compatible,” she finished as the waiter brought two small glasses of the brandy-like rakia.

 

“Duh,” he snorted. He’d once overheard some Mudblood using the word in a similar context and secretly found it quite expressive. He sipped his drink, and she did the same.

 

“Er, thanks.” She gestured with her glass, indicating the rakia.

 

“Whatever,” he mumbled, shrugging. Perhaps Granger would be more tolerable pissed. It might at least be entertaining.

 

“Right, so you thought that, what, magically? You and a beefy, Bulgarian Quidditch Seeker who barely speaks would be compatible? Although, your best mates _are_ Potter and Weasley, so…”

 

“You’re one to talk,” she said, straightening in her chair and picking up her fork. “I mean, Crabbe and Goyle aren’t exactly your intellectual equals.”

 

Ignoring his shopska salad in favor of more rakia, Draco grinned, “Thank you for that complimentary assessment, Granger, but I am not _dating_ Crabbe and Goyle, am I? They’re my back-up, and perfectly suited. My point stands.”

 

She glared and swallowed her mouthful of cucumber. “But you know what they say: opposites attract. And even if two people don’t share intellectual interests, they might be compatible physically.” 

 

The victory he sensed coming tasted sweeter than the rakia hitting the back of his throat as he emptied his glass. “Am I to take it you and Krum weren’t compatible physically either then?” he smirked.

 

Granger pursed her lips and fell back in her chair, gaze wandering around the restaurant. The lunchtime crowd had thinned out, soft laughter and low snatches of mostly Bulgarian drifting on the summer air.

 

“Do you think that’s enough?” she asked quietly, twisting a curl around her finger.

 

 _YES_ , Draco screamed mentally. Girls were so…stupidly complicated. Bloody hell, all he _wanted_ was a shag. All he and his friends talked about was shagging. Draco wasn’t even sure he cared about “compatibility” as long as he got his rocks off, as long as he had a girl and he could slide into her tight, wet—

 

 _Fuck._ Now he’d gone and given himself a hard-on. No, wait. This was Granger’s fault. Granger and her _compatibility_ issues. And her fucking transparent shirt.

 

“Wine!” he practically shouted at the waiter as he set their meals before them. The man nodded and hurried away. Granger looked at him as if he’d sprouted fins instead of an erection. He made sure his napkin was settled over his lap and gulped down some water.

 

“You didn’t answer my question,” she prompted as she cut into her meat.

 

Draco took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, not caring if Granger thought he was a nutter. She probably figured he was drunk. Which he wasn’t. Yet. 

 

He picked up his knife and fork and smiled. “That’s because you’re lying. Or, well, because _you_ avoided answering _my_ question directly. You can’t expect that to work on a Slytherin, Granger.”

 

“Fine.” Her voice was tight, the scissoring of her knife efficient but brutal. “I thought Viktor and I were compatible in _that_ way at first. Or maybe we were at first. But it’s like it wore off or something.” She chewed contemplatively on a bite of pork.

 

“Maybe you felt the spark at first because it was new. But then you needed the intellectual connection.” _Merlin help me, I’m discussing romance. With_ Granger. At least his erection had withered. He could have kissed the waiter when he brought the wine.

 

“Maybe…” she trailed off, brow furrowed in thought. If this had been an Arithmancy problem Draco had no doubt she’d have worn the same look. And have solved the problem by now. “Or maybe I’m just too practical and logical to be completely compatible with anyone. That’s what Ron says.” She said this in a matter-of-fact sort of way, as if it didn’t worry her at all.

 

Draco sputtered and coughed as some wine went down the wrong way. A few nearby patrons looked over in concern.

 

“Are you all right?” she asked cautiously.

 

Draco nodded and waited for the coughing to die down before speaking. “And you’re going to believe _Weasley_? Like he knows anything about…anything?”

 

“Watch it, Malfoy, Ron’s my friend! I’m not going to sit here and—”

 

“Friend, eh? Your _male_ friend? Tell me, how did he react once you and Krum started dating?” Draco sipped his wine, smugly satisfied in his knowledge of the male sex and Granger’s apparent ignorance of it.

 

Granger, settling down from her small outburst, kept her eyes focused on her meat as she cut it. “Well, he was a complete prat.”

 

Draco sat back, swirling the wine in his glass. “Strange. Wasn’t he a fan of Krum’s?” he asked innocently.

 

She clenched her teeth and looked up at him. “Yes. So?”

 

“So,” Draco took another sip of his wine, drawing out the moment, “Weasley wants into your pants.”

 

“ _What?!_ That’s—we’re _friends_ ,” she whispered harshly, as if it were a dirty word. She leaned forward over her plate, eyes darting nervously, a dusky pink staining her cheeks. 

 

Draco chuckled. “Now. But that doesn’t mean things will stay the same, or that he wants them to. He’s such an oaf I bet he doesn’t even realize why he said that crap to you. He was jealous, Granger. Are you really so thick? You’re an obnoxious know-it-all, but I never thought you were naïve. I’ll tell you one thing, I can guarantee that Weasley’s tossed off to fantasies of your—”

 

“Enough!” She slammed her napkin on the table and shoved herself up from her seat. During his little speech-cum-extended provocation, the color on her face had gone from pink to bright red, her brown eyes wide and lips trembling in barely contained fury. Draco bit back a smile before wondering why he was bothering and broke into a full, somewhat inebriated grin so wide he could barely wrap his lips around his wine glass.

 

“If you don’t stop speaking so rudely, I swear I’m going to slap you like I did third year! Or maybe I’ll turn you into a ferret, since I know how much you liked that! Or maybe both!” She reached for her bag, where he assumed she kept her wand.

 

Stunned, Draco couldn’t help but picture her slapping him two years before, the sting and humiliation, then the even worse humiliation just that past year of Moody (or whoever) turning him into a bloody ferret, bouncing and squeaking for Potter and others’ amusement. Still dazed, he distractedly took another long sip of wine.

 

And then his alcohol-loosened mind reversed and combined the two images: Granger changing him into a ferret, _then_ slapping him.

 

Wine sprayed from Draco’s mouth as he began laughing uncontrollably, uproariously, at the absurd mental picture. It wasn’t long before his eyes teared, his guts hurt, and his laugh had gone completely silent in its hysteric pitch.

 

Granger stood there at first, baffled, mouth gaping, before falling into her seat with a huff and crossing her arms in aggravation. Through his tears Draco could see her glaring at him, but then her lips quirked as she fought, and gave into, a grin. She broke into a giggle just as he was catching his breath, his stomach unclenching.

 

“You’re drunk, Malfoy. You should eat.”

 

Draco brought a hand to his stomach. “I can’t,” he said weakly. “I think I broke my stomach. Also, I can’t move.” He slumped back in his chair, head lolling to the side.

 

She rolled her eyes but got up and moved to the chair next to him. “Have some water, at least.” She brought the glass to his lips, and he managed to take a few sips. He chuckled at the oddity of Granger helping him, and his stomach muscles protested. 

 

“Draco, there’s something I’ve been wondering since the Quidditch World Cup.”

 

He arched a brow and waited. She seemed to be having difficulty, her fingers twisting around the stem of the water glass.

 

“Out with it, Granger.”

 

She let out a breath and looked him in the eye. “Why did you warn Harry, Ron, and me about the Death Eaters? Why did you tell me to get down and everything?”

 

Draco looked away, his face hot from the wine and the late afternoon sun stealing across their corner of the restaurant. _What a daft question to ask._

 

Except, why had he?

 

Conscious of her eyes on him, Draco sat up and shrugged. “Maybe I liked knowing something you lot didn’t. Maybe I liked knowing I was safe, and you weren’t.” He fell back into his chair, bringing his wine glass with him, taking a drink. He yawned and shrugged again. “Maybe…I don’t know.” He realized, dimly, that this last answer was the truth.

 

She regarded him silently for a moment, squinting against the sun, which lit her eyes and bushy curls warmly. He could see more of her skin beneath the transparent blouse.

 

“You know your top is see-through,” he blurted, breaking the tension.

 

She rolled her eyes again. He wondered if she did that more or less around him than around Potter and Weasley.

 

“I know. That’s why I’m wearing a camisole underneath,” she explained with a wry smile.

 

No wonder he couldn’t find her nipples.

 

The waiter stopped by to check on them, glancing at Draco’s barely touched meal with concern. “The food’s superb. I just really like this wine,” he said, speech a tad slurred. “The check, please.” He gestured toward himself and Granger to indicate one bill.

 

“You don’t have to—”

 

He held up a hand. “Granger, don’t embarrass yourself. My parents brought me up a certain way, all right?”

 

He waited for her to make a predictably smart remark about his family, but all she said was, “Thank you, Malfoy.” He nodded curtly and picked at his food, which had grown cold.

 

He was not telling his parents about this afternoon, that was for sure. Even if it was essentially his father’s fault for dragging him to this blasted country where there wasn’t enough to do, where a person could become so bored as to be willing to sit down to lunch with an enemy. Where one’s birthday celebration had to be endlessly delayed…

 

The waiter returned with the bill, wrenching Draco from his bitter thoughts. He tossed the requisite galleons on the table with plenty to spare for a tip and gulped some more water before attempting to stand. He swayed a bit, and Hermione rushed over to steady him, wrapping an arm around his waist.

 

“I’m fine,” he grumbled testily, and he was. Except for her breast pressing against his arm, which was distracting. She withdrew reluctantly and stepped back as he turned and began navigating his way around tables, his head thick-feeling, feet seeming very far away.

 

“Um, the exit is this way,” he heard her say from behind, as if the wine had somehow blinded him.

 

“Loo,” he announced, gesturing widely with his arm in the direction of the restrooms at the back. 

 

After the longest, most satisfying piss of his life, Draco emerged from the restaurant into the balmy afternoon, his black trousers and dark, heathered button-down absorbing the strong sun like anti-Devil’s Snare. He was surprised to see Granger waiting for him, studying a paperback guide for tourists.

 

“Right, I suppose you’re on your own now that you and Krum are finished. Good luck finding something to do,” he drawled, waving dismissively and turning to leave.

 

“Have you been to the Sofia Zoo?”

 

“ _Zoo?_ ” He looked over his shoulder at her quizzically.

 

“It’s this place where Muggles keep animals and—”

 

“I know what a _zoo_ is, Granger,” he lied, rounding to face her. “I just don’t know why you’re asking.”

 

“I thought I’d go tomorrow if you’d like to meet me there.” She said it casually, as if they met socially all the time.

 

He gave a short laugh and shook his head in disbelief. “Because lunch went so swimmingly? What with your threats of violence and Transfiguration?”

 

She rolled her eyes. He must be setting some kind of record. “To be fair, you provoked me. Look, it just seems like you could use some company. I’m not stupid; I know how bored you must be to have even considered having lunch with me.” She took a few steps closer to him and looked up into his face. “We’re in a city where no one knows us. Well, almost no one,” she added as an afterthought, adjusting her blouse. “We’re far from Hogwarts and our social circles. Why not…try?”

 

He inclined his head, still feeling slow, like he was thinking through honey. “And what do you get out of this? Besides the eye candy, that is,” he leered.

 

She smiled enigmatically. “What do you care?”

 

He gazed over her head at the sides of buildings washed in gold. “I…don’t.”

 

“So I’ll see you tomorrow?”

 

He shrugged a shoulder, noncommittal. “Maybe.”

 

She tucked the book into her bag. “I’ll be there either way, at 10:00. Have a good night, Malfoy.”

 

He grunted an acknowledgment and continued on his way, grateful they weren’t headed in the same direction. When he got back to the hotel, his room was empty as usual, his parents still out. So he had a wank, read, and fell asleep, dreaming of ferrets burrowing beneath sheer blankets.


	3. Chapter 3

When he woke the next morning, Draco had no intention of meeting Granger at the zoo. He was sure he could think of a hundred other things to do instead and did not get hung up on the fact that he’d somehow never been able to think of those things before. He’d just never really _tried_. 

 

So he did, and came up with: wanking, reading, sleeping, and drinking. Drinking made most other activities fun or at least more tolerable, but doing so alone made one pathetic, he reasoned. Sleeping was out, as he’d been doing quite enough of it already (it had barely been dark when he’d gone to bed the night before), not to mention his dreams were becoming disturbing lately. Reading was too much like doing schoolwork, and he was supposed to be on holiday. Wanking was a way of life, but there was only so much tossing off a bloke could do (he knew this for a fact; there’d been contests in the Slytherin boys’ dorm).

 

The zoo it was.

 

The zoo and a T-shirt-and-khaki-clad Granger. He felt both relieved and disappointed that the top was not in the least bit sheer.

 

And thus began a week of daily excursions with Granger, each day ending with a meal at Draco’s favorite spot, where he’d proceed to get just drunk enough that he didn’t care that he _might_ have had a decent time, that he might _not_ have found the Gryffindor to be completely intolerable.

 

Near the end of the week, after a trip to the National Library (which she’d been practically orgasmic over but had to essentially bribe Draco with promises of what she called “racy” ancient texts that turned out to be some of the most obscene pornography he’d ever seen), they were sitting at their usual table in a corner near the front, when the waiter brought out a small chocolate cake decorated with candles and set it in front of Draco.

 

“Happy Birthday,” he said in a thick accent, smiling and bowing away.

 

Halfway through his second glass of wine, Draco blinked stupidly. “How…?”

 

Granger grinned triumphantly. “I came back last night and made it myself. They were very gracious to allow me use of their kitchen; they helped, too, although it’s just a simple cake. I used to make them for my mum’s birthday.”

 

 _Blink. Blink._ “But how did you know…”

 

Her brows drew together in confusion, then quirked with, what? Amusement? Exasperation? He was still learning her facial expressions. He knew Rage, I’m About to Lecture, and I Know Something You Don’t. 

 

“You don’t remember telling me last night about your belated birthday celebration?” 

 

Draco searched his wine-soaked memory. He could recall her lecturing him about how there were people in the world suffering much worse than a delayed party. Right, he _had_ gone off on a bit of a drunken rant the night before, railing against his parents and their neglect. But didn’t girls like that sort of “sharing?”

 

“I remember. I remember you calling me a selfish, self-pitying, spoiled git,” he grumbled. “So I don’t know why you’d bake me a bloody cake.” Although said cake smelled delicious; he wondered if it was chocolate on the inside, too. He fucking loved chocolate as much as a girl on the rag did. Had he told her that, as well? 

 

“I didn’t call you any of those things.” Her voice was soft and broke on the word “any.” She looked hurt, her lips all trembly and eyes shiny. The only point of reference Draco had for this reaction was the time he’d called her “Mudblood” second year. 

 

Then, all at once, the trembling stopped, her eyes narrowed, and Draco swallowed, shoring up his reserves of snark in preparation for her Rage Face and all that came with it.

 

Instead, she just sat there, silently studying him. He resisted the urge to fidget, returning her gaze steadily, if blearily, over the lit birthday candles, until he saw it. The look of I Know Something You Don’t.

 

“Perhaps that’s what you think of yourself,” she said evenly.

 

“Sorry? I have no idea what you’re on about, Granger.” He wanted to drink his wine but felt doing so would be ceding some kind of victory.

 

“Well, why are you so sensitive about your wealth, loneliness, and boredom? Why not brag as usual instead of inventing characterizations I didn’t make?”

 

He scowled. “You’re full of crap. You’re trying to…I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but you’re wrong.” He gripped his knife; he was going to stab the cake to death.

 

“Draco,” she pleaded, voice softening again, “I’m only trying to figure out what’s going on here. I mean, I baked you a cake and you’re mad at me? This is more infuriating than dealing with Harry and Ron fighting last year—”

“I don’t give a shit about Weasley and Potter’s lover’s quarrels!” he hissed. She’d been pretty good about not bringing up Potter and the Weasel that week, each day mentioning them less and less. This was the first time that day.

 

She sighed heavily and clasped her hands on the table. “I thought…I _think_ that maybe you’re still learning who you are. You’re _making_ who you are; we all are. Consider what you said when I asked you about the Quidditch World Cup, how you didn’t know why you helped. Maybe there’s still a chance for you, and being away from your usual surroundings, including your parents, for all intents and purposes, might enable you to figure things out, figure _yourself_ out.”

 

“You sound like a cross between Dumbledore and Trelawney,” he drawled, shifting in his seat uncomfortably and reaching for his wine glass. “And what do you mean ‘there’s still a chance’ for me? What, trying to redeem my dark ways, Granger?”

 

“You haven’t _done_ anything in need of redemption. Not yet, really. You’ve just been an obnoxious prat. Which is to say you’ve been a teenage boy. Now are you going to make a wish and blow out these candles, or am I going to have to eat this cake all by myself?” She picked up her fork and looked at him expectantly.

 

Startled by her abrupt change in tone, it took Draco a moment to apprehend the thought that had been skirting the edges of his hardly sober, highly moody mind.

 

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, I’ll make my wish. But first, why don’t you tell me what chance you’re hoping there is for _you_ being here, away from Hogwarts?” He eyed her shrewdly as she looked away briefly before lifting her chin and meeting his gaze with a challenge.

 

“You’ll just have to use your wish on it if you want me to come out and tell you.” Her smile was sly enough for a Slytherin.

 

Draco shook his head and grinned, leaning over the cake. It gave him a good view of her cleavage, which he’d been eying when the chance presented itself. She was wearing a top with a modest V-neck, and when she bent over or he was close enough and at the right angle, he had a decent view. Fueled by the dirty images at the library (and bored as she continued to claim it would be “just another half hour” before they left), he’d amused and aroused himself by fantasizing what he might do with those breasts. Run a finger over the tops still encased in whatever bra she was wearing, feeling the soft, silky flesh. Fill his hands and squeeze. Bite and suck at her nipples. Smoosh them together, take his cock, and—

 

\--and that’s when he’d gotten an erection. In a national library.

 

Draco knew what he was going to wish for.

* * *

Breathing in the warm night air, pleasantly full of wine and cake (chocolate through and through, as he had hoped), Draco rubbed his belly as he leaned against the wall of the building facing the restaurant, waiting for Granger to return from the loo. The street was softly lit, the sky cloudless and sparkly with stars. He craned his neck and found the moon, a glowing sliver. A breeze ruffled his hair and carried the sounds of rustling leaves and faint laughter. Closing his eyes, he hummed in contentment. Maybe this city wasn’t so bad.

 

He heard footsteps approaching and opened his eyes to slits, anticipating Granger.

 

He just hadn’t anticipated she’d be standing so close.

 

“You look happy,” she smiled up at him, her chocolate-tinged breath ghosting along his cheek as she spoke. If he glanced down, he’d be able to see more of her tits than he ever had before. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from hers, black and shining in the pale light.

 

“I feel pretty good,” he acknowledged. “You’re not too terrible to be around, outside a classroom and away from Potter and Weasley,” he rambled. Another breeze, and he could smell her shampoo, something sweet but delicate. Her breasts brushed against his chest with each breath she took. “Thank you,” he added sincerely, surprising even himself. “For the cake, I mean.”

 

She beamed, self-satisfied. “You’re welcome, Draco. So,” she tucked some hair behind her ear, grazing Draco’s arm with hers, “what would you like to do tomorrow?”

 

“What would _I_ like?” She’d never asked before, always the one with a destination, a plan in mind.

 

“Yes, what would _you_ like?” He must have been imagining that flirtatious lilt in her voice. Not to mention the coquettish angle of her head and crooked grin.

 

Oh he knew what he would like, and how he would like it. His birthday wish had been quite graphic, actually. 

 

“Er,” he tried to muddle through his disjointed, pornographic thoughts to come up with something. “I don’t know. I guess…” he trailed off, distracted by her wet lips, which she was gently biting—and then suddenly using to kiss him, surging up to wrap her arms around his neck, her breasts crushed against him, body fitting his like it had been mapped out for the purpose. Her lips were soft but firm, and he felt his back hit the wall as he stumbled from both surprise and the force of her enthusiasm. (And maybe from all the wine.) 

 

Startled out of his state of shock—he was being kissed; _Hermione Granger_ was kissing him!—he wrapped one arm around her, gripping her waist tight, and brought his other hand up to the base of her neck. He kissed back, moving his mouth against hers, surprised again when she licked at his lips teasingly then stroked his tongue with hers when he gasped. She tasted like chocolate, and he took over the kiss, exploring every last soft, wet millimeter, for more.

 

Her thigh was pressed against his crotch, and he decided, given Granger’s who-knew-how-momentary lapse of sanity, to go for it, lowering the hand at her waist to squeeze and lift her bum, enabling him to rub his growing erection against her. She squeaked and tightened her arms about his neck, breaking the kiss to pant and open her dazed eyes, lashes fluttering at his cheek.

 

“D-draco, we shouldn’t stay in the street,” she whispered breathlessly into his ear.

 

No, if he was going to shag her senseless, he supposed this wasn’t the place, although he’d honestly had no qualms about it. He certainly couldn’t take her back to his room.

 

“Where are you staying?” He’d never even wondered before.

 

A strange look crossed her face, something akin to worry or shame. Draco didn’t have time to decipher it before she was grabbing his hand and pulling him down the street, around the corner, and into a smaller, darker lane.

 

“This will do,” she said, closing in. Draco smirked and made sure to reverse their earlier positions, pressing her up against the wall, one leg between both of hers, hands at her hips. He could barely see her face, but they found each other’s lips, picking up where they left off with hot, demanding kisses. Hermione clutched at the front of his crisp, white shirt and did something with her hips that made Draco moan against her mouth. Her hands slid down between their bodies to un-tuck his shirt and creep underneath to feel warm skin, and his stomach muscles jumped at her touch. Her hands were so soft, her fingers tracing lines of fire over his abdomen.

 

Not wanting her to have all the fun, Draco moved one hand from her hip, up her side, to her breast, molding his hand over it and squeezing gently but possessively. She made that little squeak again, tongue momentarily pausing in its mutual tangling with his, one hand withdrawing from under his shirt and covering his own. Instead of smacking it away as Pansy had done on so many occasions, she adjusted his grip so that his thumb grazed her nipple and guided his hand’s movements to her satisfaction, if the undulation of her hips was anything to judge by.

 

Ending the long, messy kiss with a wet smack, Draco trailed his lips across her jaw to her ear. “You like that, huh, Granger?” He nibbled on her earlobe and she whimpered, the sound going straight to his cock like everything else. “Would you like my mouth there?” he enticed, voice thick with promise. He pinched her nipple for clarity.

 

She gasped, her other hand going round and up to claw at his shoulder. “Um,” she began hesitantly, “I’d like you to keep talking to me…like that,” she finished, burying her head against his chest.

 

Draco chuckled. This had to be the best day of his life. Chocolate cake and know-it-all Granger asking him to talk dirty to her.

 

“You like hearing my voice say dirty things to you?” he spoke lowly into her ear. He felt her nod, even though the question had been rhetorical. “Does it make you wet? How wet are you, Granger? Can you tell me?” 

 

He waited for a response but got none except the quickening of her pulse beneath his lips. He drew back to look at her, but it was too dark to see much of her expression. Tilting her chin up, he placed a few tiny kisses upon her lips, like little sips. “It’s only fair,” he said, practically breathing the words into her mouth. “After all, you can feel how hard I am.” For emphasis, he rubbed his erection against her hip. She made a small sound and bit her lip. “Maybe you’d like _me_ to feel how wet you are and tell you,” he suggested, letting go of her chin and fingering the button of her jeans.

 

“Yes,” she breathed, and it lit his nerves like hot lightning. He twisted the button through the hole, then managed not to yank the zip, easing it down with shaking hands. She’d buried her face in his shirt again, blocking his view, but he wasn’t at all frustrated to have to feel his way completely, sliding his hand first over what felt like cotton knickers, all the way down until his fingers cupped her heat, burning and slick even through the material. His cock twitched at the find, and he seriously worried he was going to embarrass himself before long.

 

“Fuck, Granger, you’re so wet I can feel it through your knickers.” His chest muffled the short, high-pitched noise she made in response, and the hand grasping his sweatily on her breast lifted to clutch at his other shoulder. Having been distracted, he supposed, by his handful of slick, panty-clad girl bits, he circled his thumb around her peaked nipple, and she jerked as if she were trying to get away and closer at the same time.

 

Impatient to continue his exploration, Draco slipped his fingers beneath the elastic of her panties, fascinated by the feel of slippery curls and flesh. He felt along the seam of her and gently probed further, the lips of her sex giving way to more wet heat. He began sliding a finger up inside, slowly, awed at just how tight and _soft_ she was.

 

“Please,” she whimpered into his chest. “Touch my…clitoris. Please?”

 

His prick full-on jumped at her pleading, and he took his hand off her breast, tangling it in her hair and tugging so he could mash his lips against hers. “Since you begged so nicely,” he rasped, out of breath from the intense kiss.

 

And then he realized: he had no idea where her clitoris was.

 

Panicking, he nipped at her lower lip with his teeth to buy himself some time before an idea occurred to him.

 

“Why don’t you show me how you like it?” he drawled in what he hoped was a sexy, confident tone.

 

One of her hands flew from his shoulder to join his beneath her panties. She drew his hand up her slit until he felt a small nub of flesh that made her gasp and throw her head back as he brushed his fingers alongside it. She guided him further, and before long he had her practically humping his hand as he rubbed in tight circles.

 

“Merlin, I didn’t know you could be so uninhibited, Granger,” he panted, doing some rubbing of his own against her hip. “It’s fucking maddening.” Her hand on his had gone slack, and, bringing his thumb to her clit, he slid his other fingers down, once again slipping one up inside her channel, a second soon joining the first. He thrust them shallowly and leaned forward, bracing himself against the wall, lips at her sweaty forehead.

 

“More,” he heard her plead, her hand pressing insistently against his. He wasn’t quite sure what she wanted, so he took the opportunity to both rub her clit more furiously and thrust his fingers deeper and faster inside her. She cried out and clutched at him, and he brought his free hand down to wrap around her, squeezing at her arse as her hips moved, causing a delicious friction against which Draco knew he would not last long.

 

“D-draco, Draco,” she chanted before her voice broke off on a series of increasingly high-pitched, wordless cries that he had to silence with his mouth as, he was pretty sure, she came, the walls of her pussy clamping down on and convulsing around his fingers. He gripped her tight and thrust against her one last time before coming himself, messily but spectacularly in his trousers.

 

“Mmm…” He slumped against the wall, limp and grinning, still holding onto Hermione, who did much the same. She removed her hand from his and lifted it weakly to encircle his waist, tipping her head forward to rest on his chest. He slid his fingers out and lightly cupped her, unsure what the protocol was after fingering a girl to orgasm. He figured he’d wait, for now, until she gave him some cue. Granger was very practical and helpful, after all.

 

“I feel so good,” he murmured against her hair. Between the wine and the afterglow, he was ready to fall asleep right there, standing in a dark lane with his hand down her pants. 

 

She giggled. “Me too. Although, we should probably go home and get some sleep.”

 

“Yes. I agree. In just a moment we’ll…do that.” She was so warm and fit perfectly in his arms. He absently stroked along her sex, and she hissed.

 

“I’m a little sensitive,” she warned.

 

“Oh, sorry,” he apologized hurriedly, halting his movements. He gently extricated his hand from her knickers, secretly thrilling at the shiny, slick digits. While Hermione busied herself doing up her jeans, he brought his hand to his face and sniffed. It smelled…musky. He licked at a finger tentatively, and when that wasn’t enough, slid it inside his mouth to the first knuckle, swirling his tongue around.

 

“What are you—that’s…” Draco couldn’t see it, but he bet she was blushing furiously.

 

“You know, it’s really not that bad. Just sort of strong and tangy. I don’t know what some blokes are complaining about.” He dipped his head as if to kiss her, and she tried to dodge him. “Unless maybe you taste especially good. Wanna taste yourself, Granger?” He grinned wolfishly as she shoved him back.

 

Chuckling, he wiped the rest off on his shirt and reached back for his wand to perform a quick cleaning spell. Thank Merlin underage witches and wizards weren’t subject to the same restrictions here as in Britain. He didn’t fancy walking back to the hotel with his trousers full of come. 

 

“So…” he began with no idea how to finish his sentence.

 

“So,” she echoed, “I’ll owl you tomorrow?”

 

“Excellent.” Visions of an all-day shag-athon filled his mind. He sidled up to her, and she held on to his forearms for a brief but intense snog.

 

“Got you to taste yourself anyway,” he smirked.

 

“Prat. I guess we’ll call that another birthday gift.”

 

“I have the feeling you’ll be giving me more.”


	4. Chapter 4

The next few weeks were filled with snogging and groping, frottage and orgasms reached with varying degrees of skill. During the day they’d make their excursions to wherever—Draco hardly cared where, although he was especially pleased when, one day, Hermione took him someplace called “the movies,” and they were able to sit in the back and snog—and in the evening they’d dine and, after, get down to the day’s _real_ activities.

 

Even whilst roaming the stacks of the library (for the hundredth time), sitting at the café, or walking down the street with her, Draco found it hard to keep his hands off Hermione (and somewhere after the first mutual orgasm she _had_ become “Hermione,” at least in his mind). He’d begun slinging his arm around her waist or shoulders, nuzzling at her neck, playing with her intimidating (but fragrant and soft) volume of hair. _Clinging_ to her like some firstie. And Draco Malfoy did _not_ cling.

 

But, there was no one around to see. At least no one he knew. 

 

He just wanted to _touch_ her all the time.

 

He’d also begun talking to her differently. He was still snarky but less defensive. They got into debates, but he wasn’t mean. He wasn’t trying to get back at her all the time. 

 

Also, he was desperately trying to convince her that they should shag, and he figured he should stay in her good graces for that. He wasn’t sure how he’d gotten into them in the first place, but he’d do all he could not to wreck it.

 

His plan of “good behavior” was put to the test the very first day after their initial liaison. He received an owl, as promised, with an address, and when he showed late morning, it turned out to be a respectable-sized house (nothing approaching the grandeur of Malfoy Manor, but certainly one of the larger homes he’d seen in Sofia). Hermione met him at its gate, looking sheepish but returning Draco’s eager kiss easily. She led him around back where, to Draco’s delight, there was a private Quidditch pitch.

 

“Go ahead,” she smiled, gesturing to an equipment shed. “It’s all yours for the day.”

 

Draco couldn’t remember the last time he’d been on a broom, what with the Triwizard Tournament interfering with Quidditch the past school year. The day was perfect for flying, sunny with some cloud cover so he wouldn’t be blinded, and a light breeze.

 

He took her by the waist and bent his head conspiratorially, as if they were surrounded by onlookers. “Granger, are you trying to get into my pants? Is this some sort of bribe? First the cake, now Quidditch?”

 

She lifted a hand and brushed some of his hair back from his forehead. “Honestly, must it always be a bribe or a conspiracy when someone does something nice for you?”

 

He kissed her temple, then down her cheek to her mouth. “What do you expect?” He let her go with one last peck and shrugged. “Slytherin.”

 

He spent the rest of the morning and a good part of the afternoon chasing and catching the Snitch while Hermione sat on a blanket reading. Eventually he grew quite hungry and decided not to practice the defensive drills with a charmed Bludger as he’d planned, flying down and hopping off the borrowed broom to find lunch spread out for him.

 

“You are the most prepared person who has ever lived,” he declared as he settled beside her on the blanket. “No wonder Potter and Weasley keep you around.”

 

“Gee, thanks,” she said dryly, pelting him with a grape.

 

He removed his gloves and shin guards, retrieving the grape from the blanket and popping it in his mouth. “True, we did establish other reasons Weasley might want you around,” he munched, lying back on his elbows. “D’you think Potter wants into your knickers, too?” he mused, tilting his head quizzically.

 

“Quit it, Draco,” she warned, but there was no real venom in her voice. She unwrapped some cheeses.

 

“I bet he does,” he continued as if she hadn’t interrupted. “D’you think they talk about you, the two of them? About what they would do to you? And then go off to their beds and—”

 

“I _thought_ we weren’t supposed to mention Harry and Ron,” she cut him off, shoving a bowl of something at him. Her skin was flushed all the way down her neck.

 

He smirked. “Just making conversation.” He contemplated pushing her further, especially knowing how much she was into dirty talk, but decided against it for now. Maybe he’d tell her about how he’d tossed off to fantasies (and memories) of her later. You know, to get her in the mood. Instead, he ate a few forkfuls of salad and peered around, examining the nearby house.

 

“So whose house is this?”

 

She froze mid-bite. Putting down her slice of cheese, she uncapped her bottle of water and held it before her lips. “Viktor’s,” she said, gulping the water.

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

She swallowed some more water, then wiped primly at her mouth with a napkin. “This is where Viktor and his family live.”

 

Draco shot up from the blanket, heat rising to his face, his sore muscles protesting. “Granger, are you _staying_ here?”

 

She looked up guiltily but set her jaw. “Yes. What’s wrong with that?”

 

His mouth gaped a moment before he clamped it shut. “You’re a total slag then,” he growled.

 

“ _What?!_ ” She rose to her feet and clenched her fists. “How _dare_ you! And what are you even talking about?” Her voice had grown thick with frustration, the embarrassed flush from earlier now an angry red.

 

Draco pointed his finger at her. “You tell me you broke up with him. Then you bake me a cake and practically shag me in an alley?”

 

She put her hands on her hips and took a deep, shaky breath. “I _did_ break up with him. He’s off at some training camp, and his parents went with him. His family likes me and allowed me to stay in their home while they’re gone. And it wasn’t an alley,” she scowled.

 

Draco considered her a moment. She was probably telling the truth, knowing her stupid forthright, Gryffindor nature. Although…

 

“So you’re staying in your _ex-boyfriend’s_ house? Isn’t that a little…odd?”

 

She sighed again, dropping her hands. “Yes. It’s why I evaded the question last night. I also suspected you might overreact like this. But the Krums insisted, and one of their house-elves is attached to me, and—”

 

“All right, all right, fine.” He smoothed back his hair, calming himself. He believed her; now it was time to forget about the whole thing. And take advantage of her guilt.

 

“Can you show me where the loo is?” he asked innocently.

 

“Oh, of course,” she said a little quietly, probably hoping there’d be a more decisive (and happy) resolution to their spat. They walked across the pitch to the house, where a spritely house-elf greeted them at the back door, fawning over Hermione and eying Draco suspiciously until it was explained that he was a classmate and “friend.” Hermione pointed Draco to the bathroom, and when he was finished, he let her show him around some of the ground floor rooms as the house-elf busied itself clearing their picnic things.

 

“And where are you staying?”

 

She bit her lip, hesitating. “This way,” she finally said, and he followed her up a flight of stairs, down a hallway, and into a large bedroom. 

 

Draco shut the door behind them, just for the _feel_ of privacy, of intimacy, and went to sprawl on the small sofa near the fireplace.

 

Hermione glanced at the door then looked to him, waiting.

 

“I know how you can make it up to me,” he said, eyes trailing up and down her body to make his implications clear.

 

She crossed her arms over her chest and shifted from one foot to the other as she stood before him. “Make what up to you? I haven’t done anything wrong,” she protested, stubborn.

 

“I see you’re wearing my favorite top,” he nodded, indicating the sheer, floral blouse from the week before. “Don’t pretend you didn’t choose it on purpose.”

 

“I didn’t know it was your favorite. I didn’t know you had a favorite.”

 

He couldn’t tell if she was lying or evading the issue of whether she’d chosen to wear it for him. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that she wasn’t stomping off, rolling her eyes, or sending him home.

 

“Why don’t you take the—what was it? Camisole?—off.” It wasn’t a question. Draco’s heart raced just saying it, though he was quite sure he appeared calm and confident.

 

Hermione’s arms loosened from her chest but didn’t drop. “Um, well, it’s just that, the camisole’s got a built-in bra, so…” she trailed off apologetically, as if this settled the matter. Where was the aggressive girl from the night before?

 

“Granger,” he growled, annoyed. “Come here.” She took a few steps toward the sofa until he sat up and yanked her onto his lap. She yelped and gripped his shoulders.

 

“Stop playing the fool. You know I would’ve asked you to take off your bra, too, if you were wearing one. Now what’s the problem? You were the one who threw yourself at me last night, and now you’re acting like a skittish ice princess.”

 

“Don’t you think you’re exagger—”

 

“Whatever,” he interrupted. “Explain. I really want to see your tits, and you’re holding things up.”

 

She glared before looking away to survey the room, gnawing on her lip. “It’s just…this _is_ Viktor’s home, and—”

 

“Come off it. What did you think was going to happen when you invited me here?” He leaned closer and sucked at her earlobe, hands travelling up her thighs. “In fact, I bet you find it as much of a turn-on as I do.” He raised his hips, letting her feel his rapidly growing erection through his trousers. 

 

She gasped. No denials. 

 

He pulled back to look her in the eye. “Now, take the camisole off.”

 

And she did.


	5. Chapter 5

_The Present_

 

“Drayo, tay thish aw _ow_!”

 

The light from the fire Draco had started flickered golden along Hermione’s soft (he knew) skin. She was trembling. With rage.

 

Draco covered his mouth with his hand; he wasn’t sure he’d be able to speak around his smile. The _picture_ she made. Physically tugging down his lips, he made an attempt. 

 

“I know you won’t agree, but my father is a genius.”

 

Her eyes, a rich brown in the fire’s glow, burned into his with reprobation and the promise of something that made Draco’s smile falter. Maybe he ought to stop toying with her. Maybe he _should_ untie her immediately.

 

But, he figured, if he couldn’t bring her around, he was done for either way. She would take all her wrath out on him. He might as well play while he could.

 

Besides, he was fairly certain he _would_ bring her around. If there was one thing Draco had learned these past few weeks spent snogging and getting one another off, it was that they had what Granger called “chemistry.” Sexual chemistry. And it made her as easy as a mind on Veritaserum with him, pliant yet bold.

 

Just not pliant or bold enough for actual sex.

 

It bewildered Draco, given all the other things they had done together, that she always stopped him, stopped them, whenever he’d begin urging, verbally or non-verbally, that they take the final step and just _do it_. It seemed a technicality at this point (an argument he’d tried with her—and lost), but the most crucial technicality of Draco’s teenage life thus far. 

 

He just wanted to get laid already.

 

He was tired of hearing the other boys talk late at night in the Common Room, tired of his own hand and imagination, dirty magazines and his father’s “secret” collection of erotica, tired of girls like Pansy dangling themselves just out of reach, as if holding his prick hostage.

 

When he and Hermione had started up, and so bloody quickly, hot and heavy from the get-go as if the tension had been building between them for years, he’d thought his chance had finally come. Nevermind that it was her: Hermione Granger, a girl he’d loathed since first year, one whose bushy hair and buck teeth guaranteed she’d never make an appearance in his fantasies—until the Yule Ball where she’d arrived on the arm of a Quidditch star and Triwizard champion, the eyes of every bloke on her pretty dress, her new smile ( _You’re welcome,_ Draco had thought peevishly), her pert tits (Where had _those_ come from?). 

 

Later, half-drunk on the special Slytherin punch he and a few others had managed to sneak in, Draco had practically dragged Pansy from the dance floor at the first opportunity, found a suitably dark corner of the hallway (dismissing its former occupants with a snarl and a threat), and begun plastering her with messy but insistent kisses. Confused by the mix of emotions a girlish, gorgeous Granger had caused, he hadn’t bothered restraining his impulse to touch all he could, get as close as he could—which is when Pansy had shoved him back and flounced off. Draco’s confusion followed him to bed where he put up only mild resistance to the fantasies of Granger that sprang to mind as he reached for his swollen prick. 

 

The next day he’d been prepared to exile his moment of weakness to the far recesses of his neatly compartmentalized mind and was both reassured to hear snippets of vulgar conversation on the topic of the “hot Mudblood” (he was not alone in his shameful desires) and faintly appalled to think a Malfoy like himself would not rise above such simple enticements as a nice dress and a pair of (possibly magically enhanced) breasts.

 

Thankfully, the return of classes and Granger’s generally wretched personality cured him of his fantasies. For the most part.

 

Now here they both were, in Bulgaria of all places, Hermione wrapped up and ready for him (well, wrapped up anyway), her personality not nearly as erection-wilting as at Hogwarts. 

 

Draco thought Divination was a load of crap most of the time, but he had to admit this seemed too perfect, too unlikely, to be anything less than destiny.

 

He was destined to lose his virginity to Hermione Granger. Right fucking now.

 

A plan forming in his mind, he bent down, and her features softened slightly from their taut mask of fury at the prospect of freedom. But his arms remained at his sides.

 

“Do you know how delicious you look tied up like this? Do you know how badly I want to just turn you over, prop you up with your arse in the air and fuck you blind?”

 

A sound of distress. 

 

Draco watched as she squirmed on the fur rug and avoided his eyes. He frowned. Was she _frightened_ of him?

 

He sighed, disappointed in more ways than one, and slowly brought his hands to the back of her head to untie the gag. He expected yelling, screaming, a torrent of threats, anything but the silence that followed. She merely flexed her presumably sore jaw, licked her lips, and lay there. 

 

And rubbed her thighs together.

 

Oho!

 

Hopeful, Draco studied her and noticed her fingers clenching, the flush on her neck, her nipples peaking through the satin covering her breasts. His grin made a triumphant return.

 

Bracing his hands on either side of her, he hovered inches away, his pajamas grazing her skin but otherwise not bodily touching her, and put his lips to her ear.

 

“Nice try, Granger. You’re just too easy, wordy word-lover that you are. And here I thought you were scared.”

 

She harrumphed, but he ignored it, noting the way her body jerked on a shiver of pleasure as his breath tickled her ear.

 

“You taste even better than chocolate cake, Granger. Don’t you want to be the best present I’ll ever have?” As he spoke, he trailed a finger lightly up her thigh, making his way under and between her legs. Just as he reached the edge of the ribbon, she clamped her thighs together, momentarily trapping the digit. She turned her face to his, her expression absent all indignant lust.

 

“Would you have _enjoyed_ your present even if we hadn’t already been seeing each other?”

 

Draco drew his brows together in confusion, the sort that shielded him from things that, deep down, he truly understood. “What? What do you mean?”

 

She looked him hard in the eye. “I mean, had you and I not bumped into each other here in Sofia and started up, or even if we had met and gone our separate ways and remained enemies, and your ‘genius’ father kidnapped me—as he indeed did—would you have taken your ‘dirty fuck on the sly’?” 

 

He jerked up and away from her, the question as good as a slap. “What do you take me for, Granger? As if someone like me couldn’t get it any other way. Pansy may have made a bitch move, but there are dozens of girls in Slytherin— _and_ other Houses—who’d scheme and maim for a chance with me. Not to mention I need only say a word and my father could procure _companionship_ to my exact specifications.” He sat back on his heels, pointy chin in the air. She was completely ruining the mood.

 

Hermione turned her upper body toward him as best she could. “Why haven’t you, then, since virginity is oh so bothersome, according to you?” 

 

He shrugged. “I like a challenge.”

 

“Pansy wasn’t proving a challenge?”

 

“Pansy was proving a slag.”

 

A familiar eye roll. “Oh come off it, Draco. Own up to the fact that what you want is some sort of _relationship_ along with the sex. Or at least a little compatibility.”

 

It was his turn to roll his eyes. “I’m not a _girl_ , Granger, which I’m quite sure you’ve noticed,” he added wryly. He’d been at least half hard since his father had revealed her beribboned form, though this useless conversation had fixed that. 

 

At his response, she let out a great, exasperated sigh and twisted about in her bonds, grimacing. 

 

What a disaster. What a waste of that “chemistry” stuff.

 

Wait. What was it Granger said about her and Krum? They weren’t compatible. It’s why she’d broken it off with him. And just before doing so, along comes Draco himself, quickly followed by a meal in which the oversharing witch reveals that Weasley’s told her she can’t be “completely compatible” with anyone, what with her brains.

 

It was like someone had let loose fairy lights inside his head.

 

He would have his birthday night yet. 

 

“Do you want to just leave, then? Since clearly _we’re_ not compatible.” He did his best to sound disgruntled but not too whiny.

 

Her eyes shot to his in surprise. “Um, but what about your father?”

 

“I’ll tell him you escaped.”

 

She looked skeptical. “You’d do that? He’ll see me as a threat and punish you and who knows what else.”

 

Breaking eye contact, he played idly with a loose thread on his sleeve. “Then I’ll simply unbind you and we’ll wait for his return. There’ll be nothing worthwhile for him to Obliviate.”

 

Wresting her arms as if she’d forgotten they were tied, Hermione strained up from the floor. “Nothing except the fact that he took me against my will to deliver as a sex present!”

 

Draco hung his head, working the angst, and stood, turning his back to her as he walked to his bed and flopped dramatically down onto it. “Right. The thing is there’s nothing I can do about that. You know I had no idea he was going to do this. You heard. Unless you’ve got some brilliant idea…”

 

He heard soft, carpet-y sounds and a series of thuds. “As a matter of fact, I do. Regardless of what does or doesn’t happen, _I_ will be the one Obliviating _him_!”

 

Shoving himself into a sitting position, he goggled at her. “How can you possibly be able to do that?”

 

Hermione, who’d somehow wriggled off the rug and closer to his bed, smiled righteously. “After Lockhart second year I set about studying Memory Charms.”

 

Draco barely managed to suppress his grin. He slid down onto the floor beside her. “Impressive, Granger.” He desperately wanted to add that she’d hardly even gloated, but he didn’t want to risk setting himself back. She beamed. He reached out as if to stroke her hair, then withdrew his hand in feigned apology.

 

“You said regardless of what _does_ or doesn’t happen. It’s cruel getting a bloke’s hopes up, you know. And you don’t want to be labeled a tease,” he mumbled, staring down at his clasped knees. He added the last, mean little bit to be convincing; she might find his wounded act too see-through otherwise.

 

“Draco.” Her voice was quiet, and when he looked he found her biting her lip but gazing at him steadily. “I _do_ think we’re compatible, as previously unthinkable as it was. I told you as much. You can’t blame me for being angry that your father did this.”

 

“No. But I can make a suggestion and an observation.” This was it. Dear Merlin, let it work.

 

She looked as ready and eager as on an exam day. A good sign.

 

He let his legs collapse to the side and bent down close. “I suggest revenge. And in this case, the best revenge would be enjoying the evening _with_ your consent, with the knowledge that my father has no idea we’ve already been giving each other ‘presents’ of a similar sort and that it has nothing to do with shameful desires or blood status. The joke, as they say, would be on him.” He smiled and risked laying a hand on her knee, fingers splaying to caress her lovely calf as he waited. She might counter that the best revenge of all would be _telling_ his father everything. And Draco was not ready for such a conversation. Or bloodletting. His _or_ Hermione’s.

 

She lifted her chin. “I’m not generally a vengeful person, and I think having sex as revenge is a bad idea.” Draco’s heart, spirits, and hormone levels fell, along with some invisible tears. “However,” she resumed, eyes sparking, “I must admit your father is so vile the thought of his displeasure if he knew does fill me with joy.”

 

It was like the first time he had held his wand, the joy that filled _him_ at that moment. There was finally no need to contain the grin that took over his face, though it still required a massive reserve of restraint not to kiss her lips swollen.

 

Hermione returned his smile and laughed. “I thought you’d be defensive about your father, but you look like a child on Christmas morning.”

 

He squeezed her leg and leaned in closer, their noses nearly brushing. “You underestimate how much I want you. And it’s my birthday, or was,” he breathed before capturing her lips. She responded immediately, mouth opening to accept his tongue, and Draco’s cock twitched. _Oh thank you, thank you, thank you._

 

She broke the kiss, gasping, and his hands went for the big bow at her breasts. “Shall I unwrap you?” he smirked.

 

“Oh,” she sighed, relieved. “Yes, but,” she bit her lip, “would you get me a blanket?”

 

Perturbed, Draco raised a pale brow. “I’ve seen pretty much everything already.”

 

“‘Pretty much everything’ and ‘everything’ are not the same. Especially ‘everything’ all at once. Anyway, you’ve actually touched more than you’ve seen, mostly under clothing. So if you don’t mind, I don’t think it’s terribly unreasonable of me to request that I show you what I want, when I want, given the circumstances.” Despite her resoluteness, the flush had returned to her neck and spread to her face, and Draco wasn’t about to waste any more precious time. This was proving a hundred times more complicated than he’d envisioned when his father had left the room earlier. In his mind, the evening was going to start with some warm-up teasing, followed by foreplay, unwrapping, and sex. Simple but satisfying. Still, he would take complicated and satisfying over unsatisfying any day.

 

He smiled graciously and bowed at the waist. “Of course. I am a gentleman, after all.”

 

Hermione snorted, but his smile only grew wolfish in return. “I don’t know how I keep forgetting,” she remarked wryly.

 

“Let’s get you on the bed first, shall we? Wouldn’t want your delicate skin to get carpet burns.”

 

Pleased to see her nodding, Draco slid one arm beneath her knees and the other around her upper back and lifted her to the bed, positioning a pillow beneath her head.

 

“Oh, thank Merlin,” she sighed. “My neck is killing me.”

 

“I’ll fix that in a moment,” he said, fetching the cashmere blanket from the foot of the bed and settling it over her.

 

“Mm, the pillow smells like you,” she murmured, closing her eyes.

 

Draco’s breath caught. He wanted this so badly. And he realized she was right: it was _her_ he wanted badly, this girl he’d loathed and who’d forced herself on him socially in a foreign country and with whom he’d enjoyed himself more than he ever had with his ex or Slytherin posse.

 

“I’m ready,” she said softly, the blanket pulled down to expose the big bow.

 

Draco launched himself down onto the bed beside her so that they lay face-to-face and brought his shaky hands to the bow.

 

“Nervous?” she giggled.

 

“Impatient,” he corrected. He grasped the ends of the ribbon in his long fingers and pulled, slowly but firmly. With a whisper, the satiny material loosened from its knot, and, marking Hermione’s rapid breaths, Draco quickly undid the second, exposing her rather perfect breasts, all creamy and pert. His cock strained insistently against his pajama bottoms.

 

“Finally.”

 

It took Draco a moment to realize the words of relief had come from Hermione, not him (or his potentially sentient cock). There was a lot of wriggling under the blanket, as if she were having a fit. 

 

“‘Finally’? You’re the one who’s been holding things up,” he groused playfully, eyes transfixed on her jiggling breasts. After another moment of struggle, she stilled, pulled out her arm, and whapped him lightly on the side of the head.

 

“Arse,” she smiled.

 

“I was thinking tits,” he smirked and pulled her close, sinking down to bury his face in his favorite pair. She made a small, pleased sound and brought her hands to his head.

 

“Weren’t you going to get rid of my neck pain?” Her voice was amused but tinged with arousal.

 

“Yes.” He kissed the valley between her breasts. “Just give me a minute.” He mouthed and nibbled his way to a nipple and sucked. The sensation throbbed in his cock.

 

“Ah!” She bucked against him, and he rubbed himself against her leg. At this rate, he’d blow his load before he’d even gotten inside her. 

 

Reluctantly, he pulled away and sat up, making a show of cracking his knuckles and shaking out his hands. “Now, let’s see about those achy muscles.” He just hoped giving her a massage would calm rather than further excite him.

 

“Yes, let’s.” Hermione pushed herself up into a sitting position, clutching the blanket to her front but leaving her naked back exposed to him, all tan and smooth. 

 

“You could stay lying down, you know.”

 

“You’re all right,” she spoke over her shoulder. Her lips quirked in an embarrassed smile. “I’m a little afraid I’d fall asleep. It’s been rather an exhausting night.” 

 

Draco scooched forward, bringing his front right up against her back, the “v” of his legs framing hers. “I imagine, what with all your unnecessary thrashing,” he grinned against her neck before planting a wet, sucking kiss there. He withdrew and began kneading her shoulders with his hands, carefully and firmly but not too vigorously, copying what Pansy typically did with him as he’d only ever been on the receiving end of these things. Hermione’s noise of indignation at his comment turned to a low, content moan, and he could only hope his touches were as arousing as her reactions were turning out to be for him. So much for calming down. 

 

Soon, they both became lost in the sensations of touching and being touched, as Draco worked his way over Hermione’s entire body (save for the very best bits). She shifted the blanket when necessary but didn’t appear too concerned for her modesty. As she’d said, it wasn’t so much what he saw as how much all at once. He found it both maddening and erotic. 

 

“What was your observation?” Hermione’s voice was languorous but characteristically insistent. It was the first either of them had spoken since the massage had begun, and Draco blinked as if he’d been in a trance. 

 

“Hm?” 

 

“Earlier you said you had a suggestion and an observation, but you only made the suggestion that we get revenge on your father. What was the observation, then?” Now sitting back against the headboard, blanket across her lap, she looked at him inquiringly. Somehow it managed to be intimidating, even with her breasts all bare and high on her chest distracting him.

 

 _Oh, right,_ he remembered after another moment’s muzzy-headedness as his thumbs pressed into the arch of her right foot. _Crap._ The observation had been his back-up plan in case the suggestion didn’t work; at this point it could only ruin the mood. _Unless_ he played it off right.

 

He shrugged a shoulder and snickered. “Only that I’d finally caught onto your very Slytherin scheme and was going to blackmail you with it like the Slytherin _I_ am.” He finished with her foot and placed it gently on the bed then crawled up to lie beside her, head on one hand.

 

She turned on her side, mirroring his position, brows furrowed in confusion. “My ‘Slytherin scheme’?”

 

He leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers in a teasing near-kiss. “You’re so naughty, pretending you don’t know,” he said in a low, rough voice, each word bringing their lips into contact. “I mean how you’ve been using me as some sort of test case for compatibility. Evading questions as to why you wanted to spend time with a git who’s been nasty to you since you’ve known him. Snogging me—practically shagging me—just after you’ve broken up with your Quidditch star boyfriend with whom, according to you, you’ve little chemistry. That comment Weasley made. How we’re far away from everyone we know and who knows us, a perfect little place to experiment. But like I said,” he added quickly when he saw and felt her bite her lip, “it’s not like I’ve minded. It’s been bloody brilliant. And it’s about to get even more brilliant.” He licked at her lip and looked into her eyes with all the desire he felt, his free hand reaching to caress her side.

 

Hermione shook her head. “Slytherins are so…odd.”

 

He grinned and tangled his hand in her hair, holding her fast so he could put his Slytherin tongue in her silly Gryffindor mouth for a good, thorough snog. When they broke apart, panting, he was anxious to see she still looked worried.

 

“Are you _sure_ you don’t mind?”

 

He growled and shoved at her left shoulder, pushing her back against the mattress. He climbed over her, placing his arms beside her head, body lying atop hers. “ _Yes_ , I’m sure,” he hissed. “The fact that you manipulated me only makes me want you more. And sod Slytherin, Granger, I’m fifteen and a bloke. I’ve been fantasizing about this since the Yule Ball.”

 

 _Shit._ He hadn’t meant to admit that.

 

Hermione’s mouth dropped open then spread into a bright, beaming smile. “You have?” Not a trace of self-satisfied triumph could be found in either the smile or tone of her voice; she was all girlish wonder and pleasure. Draco relaxed and meant to smirk roguishly but felt his lips form a genuine, happy grin. He nodded, face flushed.

 

The pleased sparkle in her eyes flashed sharply, and suddenly she looked dead serious. In a voice thick with urgency she ordered, “All right, take your clothes off.”

 

Not about to protest, Draco immediately scrambled off her and fumbled at the buttons on his pajama top. Breathing fast, eyes unable to look away from her intense, hungry gaze, he struggled with the first few before regretfully breaking eye contact to focus on his task. He heard the sheets whisper and mattress creak as he quickly untied and shucked off the bottoms beside the bed, nervous but eager above all as he stood naked before her, cock already hard and ready.

 

She took him in, eyes dark, tongue sneaking out to swipe at her bottom lip, and then tossed the blanket off from across her lap decisively and stood, hands loosely grasping the edge of the mattress behind.

 

She was right. The all-at-once thing _was_ different. It was amazing. _She_ was amazing. From her disheveled, wild mass of hair, all the way down to her pink-painted toenails. Firelight flickered warmly over her tan skin, creating tantalizing shadows and accentuating the soft lines of her curves. He tried not to stare too long at her nice, pert breasts, the nipples pink and peaked, or the dark curls between her legs hiding the delectable intricacies of her sex—and failed. 

 

“You’re bloody amazing,” he blurted. 

 

She giggled, her shy but provocative gaze rising to meet his. “You’re not so bad, either.”

 

He huffed in mock-offense. “Understatement.” She rolled her eyes, and he stepped forward, bringing his hands to her hips possessively. He rested his forehead against hers and exhaled, trying to keep control. “It’s going to take everything I have not to throw you down and fuck you hard and fast. But I don’t want to make it any more painful for you than it has to be.”

 

“Painful? Oh,” she seemed to catch herself.

 

He drew back. “You’re not…you’ve…what the fuck, Granger? You said you and Krum weren’t compatible or lost it or whatever. You slept with a bloke you didn’t feel that with? Aren’t you all about the search for chemistry and all that shite?” Draco blamed the night’s pattern of arousal and denial on his bout of hysteria. Honestly, he reminded himself of Pansy.

 

“Draco, relax,” she said soothingly, taking hold of his upper arms.

 

“Can’t believe _I’m_ the only bloody virgin in the room,” he grumbled, glaring off at the drapes.

 

“You’re not,” he heard her say softly. “Not that that should be such a catastrophe,” she added somewhat indignantly. She released her grip on him, and he looked down, arching a brow to indicate he was waiting for an explanation.

 

She folded her arms across her chest, which, he wasn’t too angry to note, pushed her breasts up appealingly, and shrugged. “I have a few sex toys, you know,” she said defensively.

 

His brow remained arched.

 

The arms came down, and she sighed. “You really think I wouldn’t want to be as thorough in my knowledge of my own body and desires as anything else? The point is I haven’t had intercourse with anyone, but you don’t need to worry about hurting me. Understand?”

 

Draco had seen pictures of such things in the magazines that made the rounds in the boys’ dormitories. His father had a few rare pieces in his collection as well. Now he pictured Hermione on her back, knees spread, small, delicate hand working a fake, pink dildo into her tight, wet, equally pink cunt.

 

More than assuaged, he nodded rapidly and wrapped his arms around her, kissing her hungrily. Obviously surprised, Hermione made a small sound in response, especially when his cock pressed intimately against her belly. She eased into the kiss, bringing her arms round the back of his shoulders as their tongues met and tangled. 

 

When they broke apart, she backed up toward the bed and led him with her by the hand. They crawled onto it, and Hermione lay on her back, Draco positioning himself above. She spread her legs and bent her knees a bit, cradling him as he settled between them. They kissed some more, and Draco palmed her breast, warm and soft in his hand. She squirmed beneath him, and his cock jumped. He chuckled against her mouth.

 

“Don’t make me come before I’m even inside you,” he warned, wagging a finger.

 

“I’m sorry. I’ll just lie here,” she said with false apology and stared determinedly at the ceiling. 

 

He grinned and headed south, trailing his tongue down along her sensitive neck, then mouthing and nipping at her collarbone. Muscles in her face twitched, and he saw her fingers dig into the sheets at her side, but otherwise she lay still. As his mouth descended to wetly surround then suck one nipple into his mouth, his left hand stroked down her side, over her hip and rounded belly, to cup her sex, curls already damp with arousal. She whimpered, hips rising of their own accord, and Draco bit gently on the tender flesh in his mouth. She cried out and reached for his head with both hands, fingers twining in his hair.

 

Snickering, he raised his head. “Oh, did you like that?”

 

“Are you ever not a prat?” she groaned, head twisting to the side. His left hand still between her legs, he’d slipped two fingers inside her slick channel, thumb rubbing at her clit the way he’d learned she liked. Peering down at her pleasure-tense face, he brought his other hand to her mouth and traced her lips with the pads of his index and middle fingers. Head lolling back so she could stare dazedly back up at him, Hermione caught the digits with her teeth before he slid them inside. She might have whimpered, but Draco wouldn’t have known, what with his own moan at the erotic sight and feel of her hot mouth surrounding the fingers of one hand, her even hotter pussy grasping at his other fingers below. Soon he was thrusting both inside to the same rhythm, and the blood in his prick seemed to pulse against her thigh similarly. Her hips rose to meet each deep plunge, and he could tell she was close, her nails biting into his back, the high-pitched whine, the tautness of her I’m About to Come face (his favorite by far). He withdrew the fingers in her mouth for fear she’d bite them and watched as ecstasy overtook her, eyes squinting shut and body shaking with it. Her pussy spasmed, and he couldn’t wait to feel the sensation around his cock.

 

Gently, he removed his fingers and made sure she was watching as he licked them clean of her juices. If she could be more flushed after her orgasm, he was certain she would blush. He loved tasting her, but he loved how flustered she grew when he did so even more. It made him feel powerful; it made him hard, though currently it was impossible for him to be any harder.

 

When she’d caught her breath and smiled at him encouragingly, he kissed her lingeringly. “It’s a good thing you like prats, Granger.” He took himself in hand, and their eyes met. “Can I—”

 

“Do it.”

 

He looked down the length of her body and prodded around her sex. He’d touched her there who knew how many times over the past few weeks, including moments ago, yet suddenly he couldn’t find the right place for the life of him. He didn’t think she’d appreciate a surprise fuck in the arse or something. Frustrated, he sat back.

 

“Do you want me to—”

 

“No, I just need to…wait! Shit,” he swore as something crucial occurred to him.

 

“What?” She sat up, looking worried.

 

“Contraceptive potion. Did my father—” He looked wildly around the room as if the stuff would appear from thin air without so much as an _Accio_.

 

“Your father cast some spells after he bound me. That was one of them. Also some others in case I did turn out to be slag, I suppose” she frowned as if she’d tasted an unpleasant Every Flavour Bean.

 

Draco sighed in relief. His father’s way of doing things may have almost cost him this opportunity, but as far as Draco was concerned, his talent for anticipating needs was outmatched. He stifled a small smile and, hoping to restore the mood, crawled predatorily back over Hermione. Idly fondling a breast, he smirked before leaning down close to tug on her earlobe with his teeth. “But you are a slag,” he said lowly. “You’re _my_ slag.” She gasped and clutched at his sides. “Aren’t you? Answer me, Granger.”

 

Her breath fanned against his cheek as she whispered, “Y-yes.”

 

His cock, which had wilted some at the fleeting prospect of teenage fatherhood, leapt to attention in response. “It’s really a wonder you held out so long, seeing as you want my cock so badly. Don’t you?”

 

“Yes,” she whimpered. She’d buried her head against his neck, a tendency of hers, he’d noticed, when he talked to her like this.

 

He positioned himself at her sex and moved his hips, rubbing his hardness along her slick folds. She cried out, and it was all he could do to stifle the sounds of his own pleasure. “How bad do you want it?”

 

She surprised him by pulling back to look him in the eye. Her pupils were huge as she said, “I want it, I want you—I want your cock inside me so bad. Please. Draco, _please_.”

 

A jolt of something hot and cold at the same time razored through Draco’s body then radiated out in waves of warmth. He swallowed. “Put me inside you.”

 

She reached down between them and took him in hand, guiding him to her entrance. With a lift and angling of her hips, he felt the tip of his cock breach her, and, unable to wait, he pushed the rest of the way inside.

 

Absolute fucking bliss. She felt millions of times softer, hotter, _tighter_ than she had around his slender fingers.

 

After a precarious moment during which Draco was certain he’d come if he moved even a millimeter, he released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and looked down. 

 

Hermione’s eyes were closed, lips parted, brows drawn together. Beneath him, her breasts rose and fell, brushing his chest, each touch sending tingles of escalating arousal straight to his tightly sheathed cock. Her hands smoothed their way down his sides to his hips then back up to his shoulders, and her eyes blinked open. “Aren’t you going to move?”

 

“I…uh, yes,” he managed. Carefully, he withdrew from her heat until just the head of his cock remained inside then slid back in, a groan escaping from the back of his throat. _Yes, still brilliant,_ he thought. _Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant…_ he chanted silently as he repeated the motion, Hermione’s pussy gripping him with each thrust. Their bodies grew slick with a fine sheen of sweat, the silence punctuated by the sounds of their panting, Hermione’s breathy moans, and the snap of Draco’s hips as he rocked into her faster and faster, and she rocked back. He felt her legs tighten around him, heels at the small of his back urging him on, and he lifted his head from where it had dropped to her collarbone to give her an enthusiastic, messy kiss.

 

“Brilliant,” he finally couldn’t keep from groaning aloud when they pulled apart. One hand still cupped her breast, the other tangled in her hair as they just watched each other’s pleasure.

 

“I’m going to come so fucking hard,” he said between breaths. “I can’t—soon.” It felt like forever and only seconds since they’d begun. 

 

She nodded, somehow understanding. “Yes,” she gasped. “I want to feel it.”

 

“But what about—” Draco’s hips were beginning to stutter in their movement.

 

“I did before. We can do it again later. Just, harder,” she breathed into the crook of his neck. “You can fuck me harder.”

 

Sweet Merlin, that was it. Draco could only manage a few thrusts of “harder” before his orgasm tore through him, and he grabbed at Hermione’s hips to ride out the waves of intense pleasure, so overwhelming he cried out, hoarse and high-pitched (he’d remember later with some embarrassment). He buried his face in her hair as his hips completely stilled at the top of a final thrust, coming inside her harder, he was sure, than he ever had before with her or alone. Or possibly harder than _anyone_ in the history of coming ever had. 

 

With great effort, he pushed himself up and off her, flopping onto his back. They lay there and caught their breath, the fire in the grate finally dying to low embers, the only light from the ornate sconces on the walls.

 

“Happy Birthday to me,” Draco grinned through his haze of absolute contentment. He turned his head to look at his favorite gift, yawning and stretching languidly. “Mm, I need a nap. Lynx rug later?”


	6. Chapter 6

“Wait…I have to sit up.”

 

“Oh, but…the angle’s better if you… lean back.”

 

“It’s…awkward, Granger…I’ll fall over.”

 

“Just…use your arm…for support.”

 

“It’ll get…tired. Here,” Draco panted and grasped Hermione’s hips as he lay back on the fur rug where they’d finally made it for round three after some napping and a slow, sweet, spooning shag on the bed.

 

Above him, Hermione suddenly stilled, arms shyly covering her heaving breasts, eyes cast toward the rekindled fire. Her thighs gripped him tightly, lean and taut, her wet sex sheathing his unfailingly interested prick even tighter.

 

“Are you _joking_?” Draco gaped. Shaking his head, he took her wrists and pulled, straightening his arms over his head against the luxuriously soft rug and causing her to lean forward, her breasts just grazing his chest, her flushed, sweat-sheened face hovering above his. She squeaked, and he smirked. “There, that should be the perfect angle. Now ride me, Granger. I have yet to feel you come while I’m inside you, and I’m sure it’s not to be missed.”

 

Hermione bit her lip before breaking into a tremulous smile. She began to move, rocking her hips slowly at first until she found a rhythm, then squeezed her eyes shut and moaned, body undulating faster and faster. Draco arched his neck and shut his own eyes, afraid the sight alone would make him come too soon. 

 

He felt her wrest her grip from his, then the heat of her palms was burning his shoulders, fingernails scraping his slick flesh. Her cries grew louder and higher, her grinding frantic, and he couldn’t help but open his eyes and watch as she forgot herself, the clenching of her hot cunt signaling her orgasm. Draco gasped as the intense rippling all around his length triggered his own, and he reached up to grab at her hips as he emptied himself inside her.

 

“Sweet fucking Merlin!” he swore before releasing his hold on her. Hermione slumped forward atop him a moment, giggling, before crawling off and curling up at his side.

 

“Aren’t you glad I convinced you about the rug?” he asked once he could breathe (and think and speak) normally.

 

“We could have done that on the bed,” she reasoned, but she was smiling up at him. “So, was it as spectacular as you’d hoped?” 

 

“Oh yes. I am now aware how insufficient imagination can be. And one’s own hand, though I’d already figured that out. I’d even say it was worth the wait, though honestly we could have been doing this weeks ago.” He stroked her arm affectionately just to show he wasn’t too peeved.

 

She sighed and sat up. “Well, Draco, it hasn’t been easy, dealing with the fact that the person with whom I’ve found the most chemistry is a boy who’s been quite nasty to me—and my friends—in the not-too-distant past. Being away from Hogwarts has been a wonderful opportunity for us, but what happens when we go back?”

 

 _Shit._ What had he started? There went the afterglow.

 

“I didn’t mean...can’t we talk about this later? Like, tomorrow?” He made to kiss her, but it was too late; she was getting up and heading for the bed.

 

“No, we can’t.” She wrapped herself in a blanket and stared at the floor. “Your father will be here not long from now, and…I’m going back to England later today.”

 

Draco didn’t move. He couldn’t. Something heavy had settled in his stomach—or plummeted there. “You might have told me,” he ground out, voice tight. “Sod that, Granger, what the bloody hell?” He got to his feet and yanked his robe from the hook by the door, feeling ridiculous and vulnerable being the naked one.

 

“I was _going_ to,” she said earnestly, crossing the room to him. He shook his head like he couldn’t believe it. “I was going to tell you today, at lunch at the usual place. I’ve stayed in Sofia longer than I was supposed to, pushing my departure back day by day to be with you. Obviously I hadn’t planned on…this.” She gestured back to the bed. “I hadn’t planned on sleeping with you. I thought it would be a bad idea, that it would just make things harder, and now it has.” Her eyes were shiny in the flickering light.

 

A muscle in Draco’s jaw twitched. He never knew how to deal with crying girls; typically he ignored them until they went away, but the problem was, he didn’t want Hermione to leave.

 

“Another reason for you to hate my father,” he said. “But I’m not going to pretend I’d rather this didn’t happen.”

 

She nodded and took a step closer; he let her. “I’m not going to either.” Standing on her toes, she gazed up at him hopefully, arms going about his neck. He kissed her without hesitation, slow and long. When they pulled apart for air, he bent to kiss her again, arm tightening around her waist, his other hand pulling at the blanket she was wrapped in to reach for her breast. She made a quiet sound of distress. “Draco, I really don’t think I can again,” she whinged.

 

He chuckled. “Me neither,” he assured her, though he was half-hard already.

 

She gave him a peck and pulled away. “Besides, we need to get ready. I know I shouldn’t, but I’m going to enjoy Stunning your father into next week.”

 

“You’re certain this is the only way?” Draco joined her by the nightstand. 

 

“It’s either Oblivate or be Obliviated,” she noted, picking up his wand and handing it to him. “I can’t think of another way around it. This isn’t like the Rita Skeeter situation.”

 

“Rita Skeeter?”

 

“Nevermind. Right, so remember: you Summon my wand, then I’ll Stun and Obliviate him. I just hope my Stunning spell is strong enough or we’ll have to knock him out manually.” Draco paled at the prospect of having to brain his own father with a candelabra or something. “You’ll have to drag him next door to your parents’ room since you’re not sure about your Levicorpus, and I’ll have Floo’d to the Krums’ already. We wouldn’t want your mother spotting me or your father waking prematurely and seeing me.” Hermione had insisted on concocting their plan after their nap earlier. It was no surprise she’d feel the need to go over it again despite its simplicity. Draco couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed; apparently snogging and shagging her had made even her know-it-allness endearing. “I need something to wear,” she said distractedly, searching the room.

 

“You know what a Slytherin would do in this situation, don’t you?”

 

“Transfigure this?” She held up the red ribbon.

 

He smirked. “Too right, but I was referring to the whole situation.”

 

She tilted her head in curiosity.

 

“Obliviate me, too.” He looked at her expectantly. He knew it was a remote chance, but she’d been surprising him the past few weeks with her rather slippery manipulations. And if it was a question of her safety, he wouldn’t put it past her.

 

“Oh, Draco,” she frowned and returned to his side. “I’d never! Honestly, I don’t even like having to do this to your father despite his being a right bastard. But like I said, it’s him or me.”

 

Draco took her by the hips. “That’s what I thought. And in that case, I definitely pick you. You know why, Granger?”

 

“Because you’re not a completely vile human being?” she suggested threateningly with a glare for emphasis.

 

He smirked. “Because I want you to always remember that I was the first to fuck you.”

 

She flushed then raised her head haughtily. “And I want to never forget that I was the first girl _you_ fucked.” She smiled over-sweetly. “Oh, and—” she shoved him backwards with all her might, and he jounced on the bed, chest stinging with the force of her hands—“that’s for thinking I’d Obliviate you.”

 

“Ouch! Be careful! I’m delicate,” he pouted then smirked when she rolled her eyes. It had been a while; he must have set some sort of record for non-eye-rolling. “Anyway, I can’t help my Slytherin nature. Really you should be thankful I suspect treachery at every turn. It’s a defense mechanism.”

 

“Yes, for you,” she said, finally opening the closet and pulling out a set of his robes and slipping into them.

 

“And people I care about,” he said softly. His stomach was doing funny things again, but instead of heaviness, this time it felt too light in his body. He toyed with his wand, Levitating the red ribbon and trying to tie it in a bow midair. He heard her approach, felt her hand on his chin. She lifted it.

 

“If you can prove that to me in the coming year—I mean, if you want to—maybe we could…maybe this wouldn’t have to stay here, between us. There was the Quidditch World Cup, and that was before you even really knew me, and I just need to know who you’re going to be, Draco.”

 

He swallowed. He didn’t know. The ribbon fell into his hand, silky and cool. 

 

“Okay,” he said simply. It was almost 7:00.

 

He wrapped the ribbon around her waist like a sash and couldn’t help but feel it held his future.


End file.
